


When We Ride So High

by Pink_and_Velvet



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Anal Sex, Band Fic, Dreams, Drug Abuse, Falling In Love, M/M, Morning After, Morning Sex, Moving On, Notorious, One-Sided Relationship, Shower Sex, fantasies, hangovers, rough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22279936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: The fog in his mind matched that of the bathroom and John was right there, right in their with him. Fingers laced in his inky black hair and shivering as he was taken deeper, moans never filled under the hiss of the shower.
Relationships: Andy Taylor/John Taylor (Duran Duran)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 8





	When We Ride So High

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so, I’m not too sure how I feel about this one but I’ll post it anyway. As always, feedback and critiques are most welcome!

_1986_

Brown eyes flickered open at the sight off the sun creeping through the blinds. He threw an arm over his eyes, bangles clanging together, and groaned. His head still hurt like mad, barely able to find the strength to roll himself onto one side. With a huff, he pressed his nose into his pillow. There was no way he was falling back asleep now.

Feeling about the bed, the rumpled sheets screamed to John that he was alone. Strange. He cautiously sat up, head still cloudy with whatever the hell he’d drank last night. So, not all a new sensation.

There was a ringing in his ears. John was both thankful and irritated by it: the white noise was forcing him to cling to consciousness after all. John tried to comprehend his surroundings: he wasn’t in his bedroom, these were not his rumpled black sheets. They still smelt of him though, the musky aura of another was far more dominating. John immediately knew who had bedded him that night.

He detangled his length limbs and heaved his body to his feet. With a yawn, he picked up his disgraced boxers from the floor, fingered them, decided he was too tired to grab himself a fresh pair from his own room mere metres away down the hall and flung them back to the floor.

“Is there _Anyone Out There_ , anyone outside?”

The muted hiss of the shower answered his question. He smirked to himself, stretched, then strutted into the bathroom. He was thankful that the connected bathroom didn’t have a lock, not that either man would’ve minded a visitor at this ungodly hour anyway. They were both way too cocky to worry about that.

Apparently he hadn’t been heard. The shower door was shut, the fog coated the glass. John sighed, incredibly pissed that he was missing the show. But soon after, a sly and self assured grin plastered his face. He hadn’t been heard, he was reminded.

Maybe with less tequila, cocaine, vodka, cocaine, nicotine and more cocaine circulating his veins and just being more awake in general, he could have planned a much grander and desirable entrance. Something that would bring him to his knees, something that would bring his mouth straight to John’s weeping cock.

But he settled for simply opening the door and shutting himself in, immersing himself in the steam.

His eyes roamed all over that naked form. The droplets of water that fell from his now inky black hair, his skin gleamed as the water beat its way around him. John watched, his eyes widened, as the figure slowly turned, face twisted into a moue, before rolling his eyes and laughing at John’s bewildered face.

“Morning to you too, Johnny.”

John’s eyes narrowed as he hunted for the figure amongst the steam, cheeks flush having stumbled with his reply. It was a similar flush to his ‘too much alcohol I can’t handle, is singing blue silver throughout my quaking veins’ flush. Or, the ‘I’m on my knees, I’m coming hard’ flush that they both knew so damn well.

Maybe if John had a clearer head, more cocaine, he would have thought out what walking in on his best friend in the shower meant, what spending another passionate night in his bed meant and why the hell he kept on coming back to his bed.

But this was John. He was riding too high up to question the thing. Too hungover to worry his already guilt ridden head any further. That was just cruel.

John slammed him against the tile wall, hands in his hair, tongue in his mouth. He could taste it on his tongue, his saviours that were singing through him were trying to forcefully lap up all John could muster. Whether it was just John though, he didn’t know.

He felt the body tense, if only for a split second and knew that he was fighting the urge to laugh at John’s sudden needy guise. So, John decided, that kissing him senseless was really the best way to rid him of these thoughts, any and all protestations were to be swallowed by John’s clumsy tongue.

A sudden, forceful movement and John was pinned, punctuated by a small grunt and his bangles slamming together. They had been switched about so, John’s face was pressed up against the slick tile, nipples hard up against it. Craning his neck to one side, he caught sight of his bangles threatening to slip from his writs. Gasping, his already wide eyes landed on another hand. The intruder wrapping itself atop his, braced against the slick tile wall.

He shivered and moaned, the trail of another hand trailed down his left side, wrapping around his cut hip. John couldn’t help himself, he coaxed the body in closer, with a sudden pop of his hip. Touches like fire across his sensitive side. He widened his stance, pushed his hips backward. He took a deep breath, eyes never leaving the slick hand that was massaging his.

At that moment, a crooked finger sank lower, deeper. John rested his forehead on the wall, framed by the heavy hair that was now sticking to him, screwing his eyes shut. He took a deep breath as the finger retreated, then entered him again. He relented, somewhat. John’s own hand had left the security of the wall in front and was falling to the danger behind that was his own cock, hard and leaking. He circled his nimble fingers around it and managed two strokes before his calloused fingers were batted away with force.

He groaned in desperation, pursing his lips in retaliation to the silent order. John kept both hands clawing at the smooth tile. He obeyed, aching, cursing himself for being so needy.

His hips buckled backwards as those lean fingers picked up their pace. John was fucking himself on at least three fingers, or was it all four? He couldn’t tell. The only thing he knew in that moment was that he was moaning himself hoarse, thankful that he didn’t need to record any vocals today.

He was too eager and pent up, itching to get some friction on his throbbing cock, that lightly brushed the wall, torturing him, as John writhed under that cruel hand.

When those fingers retreated John felt empty. He felt alone, detached. He struggled to standing, employing his full height, to lean back into the steamy embrace.  
  


John’s breaths were coming quick and fast, too shaky and he couldn’t stop them. Couldn’t stop as he was eased back over, palms losing touch of the slick tile. John cursed himself as he was filled and stretched. Filled and stretched hard. One swift movement and he was trembling, bottom lip quivering, already meeting those rigid hips with his shuddering thrusts.

He changed his angle and groaned, low. John’s prostate was nailed. The sensation sharp. Painful. Shivers ran up his spine and his knees quivered, he clutched fast at the dripping tile. The angle was perfect as the thrusts increased with such intensity that John couldn’t keep himself quiet. He could barely comprehend the blinding pleasure radiating from between his trembling legs, head swimming.

Groans were growing louder, synching up. He was painfully close, within moments John knew he would lose it completely.

Slick skin slapped against skin, his slutty moans were wild and untamed. John jumped, as a hand grasped his cock, jerking him off in time with the thrusts. Then clouded mind on autopilot, John snapped back into action, fucking the man behind him on both ends, hands balled into fists as he let out a violent string of curses.

John froze.

He stood up almost straight as he was stroked through, the intense climax that mercilessly washed over him. He clutched to the damp skin behind him, he fought with himself to not topple over as his come coated that sweet hand and the tile in front of him. A moment over, John could feel it. John was followed down. John revelled in the moans, the release that was filling him. With his last ounce of strength, ears ringing and mouth hanging open, he wiggled his ass to push himself back. Back flush to his chest, John was determined to drain the last of the release from the heaving body behind him.

John again felt empty, lonely, as the figure pulled out and began to rinse John off under the water. Turning, John watched him, mesmerised, watching smooth hands traverse miles of pasty skin that glistened under the water. Their eyes met and John, panting wildly, leapt forward to crush their lips together. Breath was stolen and tongues were battling, it was hot and heavy, lapping up the water.

The groove of John’s hips ground rough up against that thigh. His fingers clutched at his back, then his ass. Both men were quickly being revived, the lust between them was stifling, choking them so.

Pulling away with a gasp, John fell into step as their foreheads touched, aflame, pants synching up. He was smiling, laughing if he could muster up the breath.

“Tha-thank you” he breathed, voice tickling that ear.

Stumbling from the shower, the fog from it was steaming up the room and John, cursing his glasses laying atop the bedside cabinet, searched for something to grab onto: the sink.

He was dripping, brown curls now a shade darker plastered to his forehead. He looked down at himself, not as satisfied as he hoped to be.

His head was swirling, clogging his better judgement. Fumbling for a towel, he hung it loose on his hips and fell out the door; the brush of the fabric on his hard on was stifling.

His hands weren’t enough, never enough. His touch under the water wasn’t enough, he could never get enough.

Oh how John longed to have the guitarist back with him, fantasies tearing him up inside, calloused fingers moulding together and riding out their own high.


End file.
